Saturday, December 3, 2016

What We Found Over Breakfast


By candlelight I pen this solemn note,
to the master and the mistress of this house:
I am no bigger than a field mouse,
but I have sailed upon the seven seas,
and now—what has become of me—
I cannot speak for misery—

It was in a moment of charm
that I accepted the old house with open arms.
This burned-down house—
the morning finds but none too soon—
was charred by my own match;
a fiddler’s rune I played upon the thatch,
your rooftop bearing me, it let me stay,
but now that mournful resonance
is but insoluble dissonance.

If I should run from you
I must confess
that it was I who fell from grace
with just one note—
upon your blackened cinders
grand old house, I stand,
with now an inextinguished hand.

With terror, I would flee
into the night—
I would desist from digging at the site
of one more grave—
a place that once was loved
lies in unbeguiling ashes
not caused by anyone excepting me.

A coward, I would bow
to take my strap—
I would stretch out my hand
at curt command
but would the haunting eyes
that looked out o’er the plains
be no more furious distain.

Emily Isaacson


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